Phototactic
by hyperempathie
Summary: Pete and Michael indulge in insomnia-fueled contemplation of the meaning of the word 'entertain'.


_So melt!_  
_ My lover, melt!_  
_ She said, "Melt!"_  
_ My lover, melt!_

_Siouxsie and the Banshees - "Melt"_

* * *

Peter Grey leaned back in his chair and yawned, ignoring the numbers on the digital clock that stood on his desk, glaring brightly that he should be in bed, that he would be tired the next day, he tipped his head back and exhaled through his nose. Thoughts of getting up to fetch his menthol cigarettes arose and combated the heavy feeling in his legs, like he'd die if he moved. But he twitched his leg nervously, the need for nicotine proving to be stronger before he jolted up and flicked the lights on, squinting against the brightness.

This revealed the messiness and unkempt nature of his room, the way it was after a long week, clothes and books scattered about. At least the following day was a Saturday, he could devote an hour to tidying up. His current train of thought, however, strictly involved a small black box and a lighter. Both fell into view on his bedside table and he reached for them.

_'Camel Crush'_, the label read, next to a dark blue lighter Michael had left at his house a couple of weeks ago. Had he been generous, he'd have given it back, but he was only human and he'd lost his previous one. Contemplating dropping the dirty habit, he tapped the back of the box. That's how it always went. He never really tried to quit, though he still praised himself for even thinking of doing so. Pulling one of the cigarettes out, he pressed the filter, sighing in content at the soft pop before sticking the item between his teeth and aligning the tip with the flame.

Muscles relaxed. Tension diminished.

Still, anxiety pooled in the pit of his stomach, bubbling up through a hoarse cough as he contemplated whether or not he'd have to leave his house the following day. His phone vibrated and the screen lit up to reveal a new message and Pete was sure text messages were even scarier when they were received at 3AM.

He looked at the name on the screen before sighing. Michael. The only person he'd associate with scotophilia moreso than himself.

_I can't sleep. Entertain me._

Michael Lynch had a habit of being bad at emoting verbally, without knowing him, one would assume he didn't care about much of anything. His friends knew better, he only didn't care about most things. Hastily, Pete pressed his fingers against the screen of his phone, writing a quick reply before tending to the burning cigarette in his other hand, flicking the ash off into an empty coffee mug before taking a shallow drag.

_Does the idea of me coming over at 3.30 in the morning do the trick? My parents wouldn't notice if I disappeared for a few hours._

The boy sat back down onto his chair and scratched his cheek gently, remembering he'd have to make himself look presentable if he was going anywhere. The bright light was making his eyes burn but he decided against turning it back off. But the menthol from his cigarette burned his throat in a comforting way that reminded him of a sharp winter breeze. It felt like home.

He spent the next twenty minutes patiently awaiting a reply, cigarette completely done, he tossed the filter into the mug where he'd previously discarded the ash. Finally, his phone buzzed to life again.

_It beckons. Call me when you're in front of my house._

Adrenaline coursing, he stood up and stared himself down in the large mirror in his room, squeezing at his stomach before sighing. He waded through his clothes before finding something he considered adequate and getting dressed. It was a horrible habit he'd developed, changing throughout the day when he decided he was unhappy with his outfit and how it fit him.

_'Too bad I can't do anything about my face,'_ he thought, pushing his hair from his eyes and observing his dark circles. He'd have to do something about those, though they did look pretty hardcore.

Walking to Michael's house, the empty roads seemed surreal, Pete wasn't used to walking alone this late, and he subconsciously clenched his fist and walked faster, shutting his eyes tightly against the sharp wind hitting his face.

Though he only lived a few blocks away, it seemed like ages until he reached the familiar front lawn of his friend and, eying the front porch, the lights of which remained off, Pete pulled his phone out from the pocket of his pea coat which he hadn't bothered to button up and quickly called Michael, shuffling in place to keep warm.

Michael rejected the call and Peter saw a light turn on before the door creaked open and Michael slowly led him inside and up to his room. The stairs creaked against their weight and he tried to be as quiet as possible as Michael ushered him into his room and shut the door behind them.

"Shit let me," the taller of the two quickly hunched over his computer and spent a good 10 seconds deciding what to play. He looked back at Pete and, wondering if he'd even care, decided in favor of _Siouxsie and the Banshees_, choosing a random playlist.

Now, under the light of the lamp on Michael's bedside table, Pete could finally take a good look at his friend, he scoped him up and down as he plopped down onto his bed, the mattress sinking against his weight. He leaned back and watched as the other sat on a nearby desk chair after pulling it closer, just enough for their knees to be touching.

_From the cradle bars  
Comes a beckoning voice  
It sends you spinning  
You have no choice_

Pete fell back onto the bed and shut his eyes, the soreness in his weary bones slowly fading at the contact with the soft mattress, he sighed, chest rising and falling. He tilted his head up to look at Michael who halfheartedly stirred a cup of coffee that, judging by the time, had probably gone cold. Nonetheless, he tipped it back and grimaced at the bitter taste.

"You know," Michael began, staring up at the ceiling now, feeling as content as he was capable of feeling, "when it's this late," his chest felt heavy and his throat tight, like he had to force the words out, "I like having company."

"I'd imagine," the other replied, tipping his head back and blinking slowly, "me too, though," he felt weird when he spoke, "yours, specifically."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he admitted, "I like talking to you," the dim light of the lamp accentuated Peter's features, the contours of his nose and sunken eyes. Pete heard the sound of Michael's chair scraping against the floor, his shadow rose before he tossed himself onto the bed next to Peter, turning to face him.

"Hi, stranger," Michael managed, "you've occupied my resting place."

"Please, oh, generous one, do not excommunicate me," he reached a hand out and threaded his fingers in the boy's hair. There wasn't a single strand on his head that didn't seem to loop up and curl around another, creating a thick bundle of curls.

Michael leaned into the touch, moving closer before placing a stray hand on Pete's side, who tensed at the tentative contact before relaxing, "I'll think about it."

If he paid attention, Pete could feel the ghost of Michael's words on his skin, how nervous his tone of voice was, but he was busy concentrating at how loudly his heart was beating. He exhaled a shaky breath when Michael moved closer, their noses bumping against each other. Shutting his eyes tightly, the shorter of the two felt his senses go into overdrive as he felt a pressure against his lips and, slowly and nervously, he moved against it.

The air was thick with fatigue, Pete sighed a breath he didn't realize he was holding and felt Michael rub soothing circles against his side. There was where he wanted to stay, the place where their bodies connected and where their shadows on the wall merged, where the two shapes became one. It felt comfortable in a way that reminded Pete of home. Michael's teeth scraped against his bottom lip and he gasped. He didn't taste like anything in particular, the pungent smell of nicotine clung to his skin, if smell could translate into taste, that's what Michael tasted like. It felt sticky and unusual and ended just as quickly as it began.

Peter wanted to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but felt it would be offensive somehow, so he just licked his lips and watched Michael bite his own, peeling off a piece of skin, followed by a small burst of blood he quickly wiped off. He felt like he'd committed a horrible act, shame pooling in the pit of his stomach as he wondered how much he'd ruined by acting on impulse. He was probably overthinking something that should be simple.

When Michael shifted closer to him and placed a peck onto his nose before turning onto his back and looking up at the ceiling, though, Peter felt more confident in having made a good decision. The room smelled of cigarettes and scented candles, still, though the air was much harder to breathe now.

"Does this count as entertainment value?" Pete choked out, his voice sounded foreign in his ears as he drummed his fingers gently against his stomach, "or should I try harder?"

"Stroke my hair and I'll think about it."

Peter groaned and rolled over onto his side, tangling his fingers in the mess of curls atop of Michael's head again, gingerly brushing the strands with his fingers. The track in the background decrescendoed to silence before it changed to a new one, Peter shut his eyes, finding comfort in how Michael's room smelled familiar.


End file.
